Shobhaa De | It’s Navratri: Time for Disco Dandiya... Loosen up, folks!
“Pitru Paksh” is over. Our ancestors are pleased that we remembered and honoured them as the moon waned and amavasya loomed menacingly over the universe. Ma Durga has arrived! Rejoice. I am a true believer in all that the heavens control, and dread the ominous portents of this dark period when nobody with any sense undertakes “shubh kaam”. It was during this exact period I was in Amrika, attending the inaugural editions of the prestigious JLF International Lit Fests in Seattle and North Carolina. JLF USA has established itself firmly in the land of milk, honey, pancakes and techies, with JLF Boulder (Colorado) celebrating 10 successful years this year. I am delighted to share that my fears of something terrible happening to me in a distant land during “Pitru Paksh” were unfounded — why, I even survived the devastating Hurricane Helene (the deadliest storm to strike the US mainland in two decades) that left 43 people dead in and around the triangle of Raleigh, Durham and Chapel Hill, where we were staying, while receiving updates via blood-curdling phone alerts and sirens.
Politics wise, the colour purple dominates North Carolina. Being a crucial swing state in the forthcoming November elections, the residents were keen to underline the mixed demographics — “we are neither a Blue State nor a Red State -- we are Purple, a combination of blue and red”. That’s what they said! But up close and personal, nobody was rooting for Donald Trump, and Kamala Harris was the clear front-runner. Not just in North Carolina, with its rich and diverse history, but also in Seattle (I call it “Shaandar Seattle”), where our desi big boys in tech and finance are out and out Harris supporters, shunning Trump, while pointing out there were a few nut jobs in the community, stocking up firearms in basements, prepping for the next “civil war” to defend Trump if he loses (“We will take to the streets and fight!”). This was not said in jest. Whattttt??? I was genuinely shocked listening to stories about American citizens stockpiling lethal ammo in the basement of those sprawling mansions, which reek of wealth and privilege. So many of the desis I spoke to were actively engaged in fund-raisers that supported assorted charities connected to the Kamala cause. Despite all these signs and signals, I still believe it’s going to be Trump. But I held my peace. I am not American. Have nothing at stake. In any case, my views on this subject carried zero weight at a festival that had little to do with domestic politics.
It was heartening to note how deeply nostalgic our desis remain even after decades of living the American Life — the same life that had attracted them to leave home and family behind to seek fame and fortune in America. The India they left behind is where they are emotionally located, despite the dramatically altered reality of India in 2024. They cling on to sentiments and memories of a country they desperately miss, despite all the comforts of their adopted land. The most authentic narrative about the sense of loss and longing for the land of their birth, the country their forefathers carved out flourished in, came from an extraordinary middle-aged woman named “Rani” from Bhatinda who migrated decades ago and is aching to go back to her village. Rani’s story is worthy of a Guneet Monga film. Rani meekly accompanied her semi-literate bridegroom to America, and realised quickly it was going to be a life of immense hardship in their new destination, unless she took charge of her own life. She worked hard and qualified as a truck driver, successfully passing all the rigorous driving tests. Three years later, she quit and switched to working as a freelance cook and housekeeper in the fancy homes of NRI tech millionaires, frequently doubling up as a driver taking their kids to school and running errands for the memsahib. Meanwhile, her two kids were studying hard to make it as professionals in a very competitive environment. Rani is a tough, hardy, practical woman who has cracked the American system to her own advantage. The local gurdwara anchors her existence and provides immense solace when the going gets tough. She despairs that her village back in India has hardly any young men left! All of them have paid Rs 50 lakhs and more to come to America, without papers, braving river and mountain crossings, just to land up starving and scared in the gurdwara — the only place they feel safe in. The elderly in her village have nobody around to help them in their old age. The few young girls who have survived female foeticide cannot find eligible men to marry and their parents have had to sell off ancestral land to stay afloat. Rani asks me, as she efficiently makes avo-on-toast: “Is this what we want for our children?” But Rani is not the only Indian raising this emotionally disturbing question. Several highly successful tech entrepreneurs, who have done spectacularly well for themselves and count Jeff Bezos as a neighbour in tony Bellevue, are ready to come back or relocate to some less demanding destination. They want a higher quality of life for their kids and worry about a future that’s far from attractive in a country that is dealing with a serious identity crisis. Some of the senior tech engineers I spoke to confessed they are soon going to be totally redundant, given the speed at which technology is leaping ahead. Keeping up with brilliant innovative twenty-year-olds is not just intellectually challenging, it is virtually impossible. “By the time we catch up with a new breakthrough, something else pops up which is still more advanced. We are fatigued and frustrated. Besides, so many years later, we are still living in ghettos, there is no integration. No acceptance. The companies we work for want our brains, not our lifestyles.”
As for me, I felt recharged and enriched, reassured and revived. On the 15-hour direct Air India flight back to Mumbai, I gazed with unadulterated love at my fellow Indians, behaving as we always do — shoving and pushing and complaining about everything. Of course, we were being obnoxious! That’s us. But how endearing, too! There we were jostling away like we had to fight for a seat in an overcrowded inter-state bus. The flight was bound to be chaotic! Hurrah! But a single warm and fuzzy emotion united us all… we were going home! Mera Bharat Mahaan!
